


The Woods of Evernight

by Neurotoxia



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Cultural Differences, Halloween, M/M, Post-Canon, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27181906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia
Summary: Thranduil has always been aware that the fleeting lifespan of humans make them ripe for the creation of myths and rituals. During one of his visits to Dale, he finds out how closely he himself has been linked to the traditions of men.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	The Woods of Evernight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Penknife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/gifts).



> Happy Shipoween, Penknife, I hope you enjoy my humble offering!

Thranduil rides to Dale on the heels of sharp turns in weather, autumn shifting more and more towards the onset of winter. Frost and gusts of biting winds are a steady companion on the derelict paths leading in and out of the town. 

The former inhabitants of Laketown have done remarkably well with what little they‘ve had left after the dragon. The dwarves paid their debt to Bard after all, as was promised by Thorin before he went mad with the cursed gold and stones. Thranduil advised Bard to take payment at least in part in services, having no desire to see the poisoned coins tarnish more of the lands. Bard thankfully did as suggested, with Dale in dire need of rebuilding, having a people of stonemasons, blacksmiths and carpenters in your debt was worth more than cups made of gold. The dwarf that Bard negotiated with —Balin, the only one with a sliver of sense in the entire mountain — grumbled and harrumphed about it, but shook hands with Bard nonetheless. With Thranduil there to witness it, the dwarves wouldn’t dare reneging on the agreement. Particularly after Thranduil did not press for reparations beyond the return of the necklace that had been entombed in the mountain for centuries, the dwarves should be happy to count their blessings.

Dain himself may hiss about Thranduil manipulating the ruler of Dale all he likes, and mince no words about being aware of exactly how close their relationship is, but there‘s very little he can do about it. His words slide off Thranduil like water off a duck‘s backside. Thranduil has no intent to manipulate Bard for economic gain, and cares even less about Dain‘s opinions of his choice of companion. Bard is very much embarrassed by Dain‘s insinuations, but he does not have the millennia of Thranduil's experience in nasty negotiation spiels. Dain may bark, but he does not bite, just as aware as Thranduil that he needs both Dale and the Greenwood as trade partners.

Hard-won months and treaties later, they have a tentative routine; one that brings Thranduil to Dale more often than strictly necessary but no one in their right mind would dare to question the Elvenking‘s intent to teach the newly minted (albeit reluctant) King of Dale the finer points of governing. And Thranduil does teach Bard the ins and outs of ruling, as different as human and elven government may be in detail, the broad strokes are similar enough to be applicable to both. How they spend their breaks during lessons is no one‘s business but their own.

Thranduil arrives with his guard as twilight threatens to become night, the town bustling with productive energy. It’s the first time he sees the people not fixing one thing or another -- thatching roofs, carrying bricks, twisting ropes, hacking and shaping wood to bring the decaying town back to life, but this time he sees lanterns in all manner of aquatic theme being carried around and more of them being twisted from metal and glass in the shops, boats and fish chief among them. Colourful banners are strung across the old town square, vibrant autumn colours loud even in the encroaching evening light. By the looks of it, more than one clothing item has been repurposed for their making, sewn into patches and patterns of harvest motifs. A curious display when half the town is still in ruins, but Thranduil supposes that creative pursuits lift the spirits when labour and toil rarely did.

Thranduil finds Bard in the former home of Girion, tied up in a raucous debate with two advisors about the details of the Dwarven offer of repair to the ancient water lines and wells. They all snap to attention when Thranduil enters flanked by two of his guards, a matter that continues to bring amusement. Bard is for all intents and purposes now his equal in rank, though he refuses to dress the part unless official matters force him. As such, he tends to forget there’s no need for him to be deferring in public.

“Lord Thranduil,” Bard says as his advisors scramble to rise. “We didn’t expect you before tomorrow!”

“Good evening, Lord Bard,” Thranduil replies and allows an attendant of no more than fifteen to take his riding cloak. The youth holds it gingerly, as if he expects it to grow fangs. “I am pleased to defy your expectations.”

Bard is a tad too eager to get rid of his council, the cook, and the two servants, but they are all well aware that their King preferred his meetings with the Elvenking to be a private affair and depart without resistance. Thranduil considers advising Bard to be less obvious, but he too prefers a swift emptying of the premises so they can rid themselves of the public charade. With a full evening and night of leisure ahead before they devote themselves to matters of government, Thranduil plans not to waste a moment standing in the reception hall and take full advantage of the comfortable bedding upstairs, helpfully donated by his own kingdom the year prior.

Thankfully, Bard appears to be of the same mind.

* * *

Much later, sated and spent, Thranduil finally finds himself in the mood for conversation, having taken his full inventory of Bard’s body to his satisfaction.

“Your people seem in a celebratory mood,” Thranduil murmurs from somewhere within his cocoon of blankets and furs, one of Bard’s hands occupied with a soothing pattern of combing through strands of Thranduil’s hair.

“Oh, yes,” Bard replies and stifles a yawn, tucking himself against Thranduil for added warmth. “Hallow’s Eve is coming up. Have you heard of it?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

The long period of isolation has made Thranduil unaware of the more recent celebrations of mankind. With their short life spans, occasions and festivities seem to change in the blink of an eye, in addition to varying wildly from region to region.

“It’s at the end of harvest season, the last hurrah before it gets well and truly dark and cold. On Hallow’s Eve, you send off the souls that died during the year, and hope to have a favourable winter that sees most of us through to spring.”

Thranduil hums in understanding, having seen many such festivities during the ages. Most mortal races have them in one form of another, and even the Elves celebrate to make the barren winters easier on the spirit.

“We’d put candles on small boats on the Eve of the 31st, let them float around the lake for the night to guide the souls. And then we’d keep lanterns in the windows until Winter Solstice, light ‘em at night to help those that linger on. Guess the lake part’s a bit difficult now, so we made boat lanterns to set up around town.”

“So all the lanterns and candles act as guidance?”

Contrary to his image, Thranduil has an interest in learning about human traditions, fleeting as they are.

“Yes, but not just that. It’s a protection for the living, too,” Bard says, fingers tapping a random pattern on Thranduil’s thigh. “Ward off the evil of--” he trails off.

“...the forest,” Thranduil finishes what Bard is too polite to say. “It is wise to ward yourself against it. The forest is poisoned.”

Thranduil attempts to remove all emotion from his voice, but the words taste like ash on his tongue regardless. He is neither blind nor a fool. The elves may remember the forest as it once was, and how it came to be what it is now, but mankind doesn’t possess the long memory of elves. For generations of humans, the forest has been the source of evil, the once firsthand recollections became stories, then fables and myths as the forest grew ever darker as his own people barricaded themselves deeper into their mountain. Men fear what they named Mirkwood and don’t enter unless they are reckless or stupid or both. The name rankles Thranduil, the evil now having been woven into the fabric of the trees for so long that mankind does not remember any other name. It hasn’t escaped Thranduil’s notice that he’s never heard the name spoken in Dale since the Battle at the Mountain, and he assumes Bard has been quietly spreading word that their elvish allies rather not hear their home being referred to with a cursed name.

“Still...it‘s your home. It‘s not inherently evil.”

Thranduil allows himself a rather unkingly, somewhat bitter snort. „Evil ravaged the forest for centuries and there hasn‘t been very much I could do about it. We‘ve barely held the perimeter.“

The admission is not one he would make in front of many, but Bard is nothing if not kind-hearted. After all, Bard’s home was taken by a creature of darkness as well, despite his best efforts. A matter that Bard still considers a disservice to his people, no matter how often Thranduil has brought up that slaying Smaug the Terrible is a deed for the history books that has no doubt saved countless lives on the day.

“It must be hard,” Bard states simply.

Thranduil‘s thin smile is brittle. He‘s never explained to Bard how exactly his people, and above all he himself are intertwined with the forest, how he feels every dying branch in his soul and hears every plea for relief before they turn to the wails of decay, and finally silence. How hearing nothing at all once he steps outside the perimeter, and how the deafening absence of life has become a monument to his personal failures. Failure to protect the forest and failure to make the other elven leaders listen that the shadow that turned Greenwood into Mirkwood is a much greater threat than they believed.

“It is what it is,” is all Thranduil can reply. It’s the best he’s got even after centuries of dwelling on it. All he can do is hold onto the land he has, hope that driving out the necromancer from Dol Gudur (even he is incapable of still considering it Amon Lanc, twisted beyond recognition by evil) has slowed the decay. He doubts that the forest can ever fully be healed as long as Mordor stands.

“Cocked up the night, haven’t I?” Bard sighs and attempts to retreat to his side of the bed, but Thranduil pins him down, his hair falling around their faces like a curtain.

“Hardly,” Thranduil says, unwilling to let Bard sink into a brooding silence for the rest of the night. “If anything I should applaud your people’s attempts at driving off the foul spirits.”

“Removing the shadow of Mirkwood with a candle?” Bard snorts.

“Do not underestimate the value of small acts,” Thranduil says with a quick smile. “But I still take issue with the name.”

In the low light of the banked fireplace, Thranduil sees a flush of colour rise in Bard's cheeks, no doubt in response to getting caught carelessly using the undesirable name despite his best efforts.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, but relaxes when he sees that Thranduil is not actually upset by the slip-up.

“I think I can be persuaded to forgive you for the slight, Lord Bard,” Thranduil teases, and nips at Bard’s throat.

“I’m sure you’ll find my apologies persuasive,” Bard rasps, interest and body reawakening under Thranduil’s hands.

“Do tell,” Thranduil hums before he finds himself tackled back into the pillows and furs and Bard looming above him with a playful glint in his eye.

After that, talk ceases until the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Title adapted from Korpiklaani's "Spirit of the Forest".


End file.
